


The Aesthete

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Attraction, Bamf Garak, Canon Era, Character Development, Character Study, Competency, Emotional Hurt, Fluffy Ending, Garak Centric, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Gore, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Cardassia, Pre-Canon, this is basically a study of garak's sense for beauty throughout his life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21593467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: An eye for detail along with the ability to see the bigger picture are invaluable skills for a spy - as is, surprisingly, a sense of aesthetics.The same is true for the tailor's craft.
Relationships: Elim Garak & Enabran Tain, Elim Garak & Odo, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 16
Kudos: 67





	The Aesthete

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xLostLenore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xLostLenore/gifts).

> Happy birthday! (I didn't get around to writing something new, but at least there's an additional scene...)
> 
> Credit for the prompt also goes to xLostLenore.

The smell of rich, damp soil and yesterday’s rain permeates the warm afternoon air in the garden surrounding the Tain household. Having run out of new books to read and too wary to once again sneak into Tain’s personal library to obtain another, not after having been caught, if luckily merely by Mila, and suffered the consequences so recently, Elim whiles away this afternoon in the shade of Tolan’s gardening shed, watching Tolan’s work.

It is springtime in Cardassia City and the unseemly, brown and shrunken remnants of annual plants have been torn from the flower patches by Tolan’s expert hands, steadily getting replaced by new, green counterparts. Occasionally, Tolan will pause, will impart the occasional piece of knowledge regarding plant care on Elim, who dutifully listens, as is expected of a son when his father shares his experiences.

Though privately, regardless of what he hears Mila and Tain tell others, he has his doubts regarding his relation to the man whose last name he shares. There are holes in those statements, faint and barely there, but enough to have made him start wondering and pay closer attention, collecting new details to embellish and support his theory.

For now though, on this pleasant afternoon, he is content enough to listen, commit the information to memory – after all, who knows, there may well come a time in his life where gardening expertise may be of use – and watch the mild breeze play with the delicate blossoms of the Edosian orchid in Tolan’s hands. Until Tolan begins to make his way towards one of the few free spots left in the newly planted flower patch, selecting one that prompts Elim to leave his place by the shed and hurry over to him, placing a small hand on the soil-smeared gardener’s forearm, watching the glint of his still much thinner scales against the adult’s for a moment.

“What is it, Elim?” Tolan asks him kindly upon feeling the touch.

Elim gestures towards the orchid. “May I plant this one?”

The man he is nearly certain is not his father considers this for a moment, before a warm, reassuring, kind smile spreads over his face, a smile so unlike Elim knows his own to be.

“Of course!”

Gently, Tolan places the plant into his hands, the soil around its roots cool and damp against the scales of his palms, and Elim runs an appreciative glance over its vibrant leaves, contrasting sharply in colour with the blossoms in an appealing way, while their equally delicate shapes will compliment the flowers that will surely begin to bloom in but a few days. After tearing his gaze away and studying the flower patch for a few moments, Elim selects a free space just to the right of the one Tolan intended to use and carefully sets the plant down.

It takes barely an hour until the patch is fully planted and Elim watches the rest of it come to completion under Tolan’s hands from the place by the shed, enjoying the view of the final result. The visual interplay of the various plants seems nearly chaotic at first, but there is a hidden order to it as well, turning the cacophony of colours, sizes and shapes into perfect harmony, his orchid seamlessly integrated into it in its carefully chosen place.

Behind him, the gate in the wall surrounding the garden clicks as its lock releases, sliding open with a faint hiss, followed by the heavier sound of Tain’s footfalls. Elim turns around, watches as Tain casts a glance across the beautiful flower patch inhabiting his garden, and smiles in satisfaction. It ought to be a warm smile, it very nearly is, but there is a sharpness to it, half hidden, but Elim spots it immediately because he knows the very same sharpness tends to linger in his own smiles.

He resolves to speak to Mila regarding his suspicions this afternoon.

* * *

In the corner of the accounting office – an office in, in his opinion needless, disarray after having been turned into an improvised interrogation room – Elim resists the increasing urge to roll his eyes at the three Obsidian Order operatives’ proud posturing, next to the dead body of a former dissident.

Dotek, which Elim suspects is likely not the operative’s real name, though as Tain hasn’t told him anything to this regard, this is likely not relevant information for Elim at this point, has been droning on for nearly an hour, saying astonishingly little of actual relevance, instead lauding his own, self-perceived competence. And while Elim can certainly understand wanting to gain a superior’s approval – and after all, there is no one higher in the Order’s ranks than Tain – he firmly believes this could be attempted with much more finesse and grace. If he didn’t know he would be overstepping his privileges even as Tain’s protégé, he would feel inclined to suggest the Order’s recruitment policies be revised.

Instead, he does his level best to quietly filter information out of the barrage of self-congratulation, letting it spin its web, paint its increasingly detailed picture, until one gives him pause. Something small but ill-fitting, an accidentally spilled splatter of mismatched colour on an otherwise pristine painting.

“If I may.” he interrupts Dotek calmly with a distantly polite smile. Dotek’s glare could not bother him any less, though he does suspect that speaking now, when he has earlier been instructed to not do so for the duration of this meeting, will draw Tain’s ire, but for the moment, for the good of Cardassia and its people, it is a price he is willing to pay. “You mentioned you caught him” he gestures towards the dead body next to the desk, “in the north-east complex of the facility, and that he was carrying, amongst other things, a data rod containing access codes which included that for the eighth eastern basement, correct?”

Tain doesn’t look at him, face perfectly impassive, and Elim nearly breathes a sigh of relief at knowing that Tain has obviously decided to listen and make his irritation known at a more convenient time.

“Answer his question.” he instructs the now indignant operative, who confirms this with some reluctance.

“The north-east complex, as I do hope you are aware, is hardly the most convenient escape route.” Elim continues, privately amused over Dotek’s intensifying glare. “In addition to that, I believe you have mentioned finding a reference regarding six bars of gold-pressed Latinum paid to his contact, to obtain the explosive? Now, considering the size of the four devices found, even assuming his contact had charged him an outrageously excessive price, the amount of explosive used in those four bombs would not account for the amount of explosive one could obtain for six bars of Latinum. And while the north-east complex may not provide an ideal escape route, its eighth eastern basement does run quite close to the main powerline, which, if destroyed in say, a detonation, would deprive a third of Lakarian City of electricity.”

Apparently attempting to hide doubts behind further indignation, though not succeeding, Dotek turns to Tain. “Sir, we have scanned the entire area twice, the four bombs we found are...”

“Then scan for a third time, beginning with the eastern basements of the north-east complex.” Tain orders coldly, signalling for Elim to follow when he leaves before Dotek has the chance to reply.

Later, when the fourth explosive device is found and defused, Tain turns to him, mild disapproval in his eyes that Elim at once is grateful to find and has difficulty hiding his shame for causing.

“You have quite the eye for detail, Elim. Once you finally learn to follow simple instructions, such as not speaking when I tell you not to, you may come quite far in the Order.”

* * *

Stepping into the interrogation room, Elim makes no attempt to hide his distaste at the sight of the body. For now, he is only in Tain’s company, and he knows that even with his best effort, it would take  _ him _ next to none to read Elim nonetheless. The now deceased faction leader of a sizeable cell of the Bajoran rebellion is hardly recognisable anymore, skin torn with cuts and burns, discoloured with bruises in the few places not covered in blood, bones obviously broken, limbs bent grotesquely out of the shape they belong in. Doubtlessly the result of Dukat’s handiwork.

“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly getting squeamish, Elim.” Tain comments with disapproval.

“Merely struggling to understand the point of making such a mess when there are so much more efficient methods available.” he retorts, his own disdain as clear in his voice as it must be showing on his face.

Dukat’s interrogation techniques, while admittedly in the end often effective, could hardly be further from Elim’s own. Where this is ham-handed and inelegant, and often a waste of time as well, as such bloody, straightforward violence is something the Bajoran population and especially its less cooperative elements are well used to and therefore becomes a method its rebels can withstand for quite a while before breaking. And more than occasionally, the physical damage results in their source of information being lost, such as in this case.

Elim’s craft, on the other hand, is something he prides himself on. If he needs to resort to physical pain to break his subjects at all, there is hardly a visible trace left in the end, and those there are, are placed perfectly above important nerve clusters, finely matched to his subject’s anatomy as though composing a duet between the nervous system and the pain he inflicts on it. And afterwards, they tend to remain physically mostly intact, ready to provide additional information to the Order at a later point, should it become necessary.

This, on the other hand, is ugly, downright an affront to the eyes, unrefined and disordered, and the blood still dripping from the corpse leaves an equally unseemly mess on the otherwise clean and inoffensively coloured floor.

His thought process must have been showing more clearly than expected, as he can see from the corner of his eye how Tain’s disapproval sharpens.

“If this offends your sense of aesthetics, perhaps you ought to have become a gardener like your father.”

Elim has long learned that pointing out that Tolan is not his father is a very unwise course of action indeed and so elects to hold his silence. He is utterly unsurprised when two weeks later, Tain hands him a mission assignment that will take him to the Cardassian embassy on Romulus, as a gardener.

* * *

As much as he hates, profoundly despises this dreadful, cold, ugly station, there is a part of him that almost appreciates the way tailoring allows both his eye for detail and his sense of aesthetics free reign. The rest of him despises that part nearly as much as his current predicament, and therefore, he will not actually admit as much to himself in the foreseeable future.

Then again, there is little joy to be found here, so far from Cardassia, and so there cannot be all that much harm in indulging in whatever slivers of it he does find. Such as the implant. At least its influence makes – formerly – Terok Nor somewhat bearable, smoothing out the edges, mellowing the colours into something more palatable to his eye, lowering his inhibitions enough for him to allow himself the satisfaction of a new design completed and well-received, the almost contentment of creating something of beauty, the appreciation for a fine fabric or other pleasant sights.

For example, that of the individual currently occupying Elim’s preferred table in the Replimat. A human, young, male, a member of the newly arrived contingent of Starfleet officers he watched arrive at the station from that very table. His hair is dark, looking as soft and luxurious as Tholian silk, his skin smooth and a warm brown that contrasts rather nicely with his hazel eyes, face devoid of ridges or scales or other distinct characteristics so many other species have, making him look downright exotic to the Cardassian.

He searches his memory for the information in the personnel files he gained access to when it first became apparent to him that his presence here would be indefinite, and that Terok Nor would be placed under Federation management. The picture this information paints is almost as alluring as the sight of the new doctor himself, and Elim makes his way towards him with a smile. After all, his eye for detail has landed him in this predicament, so perhaps it’s not too much to hope that just maybe, indulging his sense for aesthetics might have more pleasant results.

* * *

There are times when he misses the implant. Deep Space Nine is once again too bright, with too many sharp edges, and he fights the urge to wince at least half a dozen times a day whenever he steps out of the, sufficiently decked with appealing colours and textures and pleasantly dim, space of his shop.

Other times, he is glad for the lack of the haze its influence cast over his world. From across the table, a smile has been tugging at Bashir’s lips for almost the entirety of today’s conversation, his beautiful eyes alight with the thrill of a good argument, a thrill Elim naturally shares and is once again grateful to have found himself able to share with the alluring doctor. And so long as he watches Bashir’s animated features, even the harsh light doesn’t bother him all too much. The sight is a beautiful one, no matter how unflattering the lighting conditions.

“...so you see, Garak, the devil is in the details!” Bashir finishes his latest argument, and Elim finds his smile turning into something a little more genuine.

“Another one of your quaint, human idioms, I assume?” He has heard it before, of course, and privately, he finds it is one of humanity’s better and more sensible ones, though to admit as much would be to agree with Bashir, and he has no intention of ending their delightful argument prematurely, lest he deprive himself of the other’s company sooner than absolutely necessary. He shakes his head in a show of entirely false disapproval once Bashir has confirmed it. “Well. With sayings such as this, it truly is no wonder the characters in Terran literature are so dreadfully prone to missing the bigger picture.”

As expected, at this, Bashir launches into yet another argument for his point of view, and Elim silently prepares his counter-arguments while also enjoying the more literal view the doctor provides.

* * *

Ordinarily, he might have enjoyed the reprieve the darkness provides for his eyes, but he is in an unsurprisingly foul mood and the shambles of his miserable life here only serve to further it. A part of him had truly hoped that he wouldn’t have to set foot onto this miserable station again and although he might have missed his shop should such an improbable dream have come to pass, in this moment, he hates what’s left of it as much as he did when he first arrived in it. Remnants of fabric are spilled on the floor, their lovely, vibrant colours dulled by the soot, most of the cloth burned away. It makes for a rather sorry sight, but Elim refuses to contemplate it too closely. He has built himself a life here on this station once, he can certainly do so again. Perhaps even with one more unlikely friend – or at least, friendly acquaintance – to his name this time, if he has read the good constable’s expression of gratitude correctly.

“Quark has expressed an interest in renting this space if you’re not going to be using it.” Odo continues after a brief moment of silence.

“Oh?” Elim knows Odo doesn’t mistake his surprise for anything genuine for even a moment, then again, no one would be actually surprised. It is a very predictably  _ Quark _ request after all.

“He mentioned something about an Argelian massage facility.”

Very Quark indeed. The constable’s disdain for such a plan is quite obvious and Elim certainly shares it, if with a definite side of amusement at the mental image of what the command crew’s reactions might be.

“Unfortunately, I don’t think Commander Sisko would approve of such an  _ interesting _ facility on the Promenade.”

“I tend to agree. But I do think he would approve of a tailor’s shop.”

The suggestion, request almost, couldn’t be more obvious and even though it is in line with Elim’s plans, he feels the amusement slip away and his smile with it. The truth, a surprising and uncomfortable one as it might be, is that Sisko and Odo would hardly be the only ones who would approve of the reopening of Garak’s Clothiers. His service and designs have found him with many a regular customer, the number of which has been steadily increasing, even among the station’s Bajoran population. He did always have a keen eye for beauty, but for this moment, he cannot find it in himself to feel anything other than bitterness over it.

“Do you know what the sad part is, Odo?” he asks rhetorically, dropping all manner of pretence because if nothing else has come out of all this, he has gained true respect for the changeling, respect he knows is mutual, and as such, Odo deserves a rare moment of truthfulness from him. “I’m a very good tailor.”

* * *

Eying the PADD in his hands, the most recent encoded message between the Cardassian military and the Founders displayed on it, he wonders if the ones responsible for securing them even realise. Of course, he is often in favour of using all resources one has available, and of analysing the methods from before one’s time in order to learn from and improve upon them. It is after all difficult to understate the importance of an open mind.

This however, while he will admit to attempts at improvement obviously having been made, in one example where adhering to what is, as Bashir would say, tried and true, is a risk that if he weren’t the one currently exploiting it, he’d find a way to lecture whatever witless operative is responsible for this even from his exile. Really, it makes one question if not perhaps this might be the work of a dissident. Or maybe it is simply that now, with most of the Order dismantled, his own notoriety is beginning to fade.

However it has come to pass, the moment he sees the encryption, he once again immediately recognises it as one based on his own work from before his banishment. It is somewhat distinctive, if one knows what one is looking for, and used to be quite the point of pride.

This too, just like his own were, is too complex for any computer system, requires a sentient eye. At first glance, it seems chaotic, a wild disarray with seemingly no consistency behind it. However, just as the gardens of his childhood that inspired him, there is a hidden order there, something of beauty behind all the distraction only visible to those who see the finer details within the larger concept.

It’s a work of minutes for him to shift the code around, integrate all the pieces where they belong so he can bring that order to the forefront of the picture, and soon, the decoded message appears on the bottom of the screen, waiting for him to relay it to Starfleet Intelligence.

And once again, he hesitates. Takes in what is left of the encryption that has given way all too easily under his expert eye. Cardassian lives will be lost once he has completed his assignment and informed Starfleet, and as much as he is acutely aware that this is necessary for his homeworld’s and his people’s long-term survival and prosperity, there are moments when he almost wishes he’d at some point lost his sense for aesthetics, so that he might be spared this choice.

Shaking this moment off, he sends the message and moves onto decoding the next, all while doing his level best not to see the way the walls seem to be moving closer to him.

* * *

The smell of dust still permeates the air even now, nearly a year after the Battle of Cardassia, though at least it is now mainly caused by the countless construction sites of the rebuilding effort. An effort that will yet take years, if not decades to complete and even then, so much of what is lost is irreplaceable. Nonetheless, the reconstruction has been progressing promisingly quickly and Cardassia City almost looks like a city once again. Unrecognisable compared to before, but something that promises to one day grow into something beautiful. Cast in the soft, golden afternoon light, the sight is a hopeful one and he leans against the rail of the balcony for a moment to take it in.

Their apartment is in what was one of the first completed buildings, though a bigger one, an entire house, was offered to them, they don’t need more space than this offers, and it is in reasonable distance of both the new, interim governing building and the hospital, and its balcony offers what will one day be a rather lovely view of the city.

It is rare for them both to have the same afternoon off – to have  _ any _ afternoon without work, really – but that they do so now is testament to how Cardassia is healing and they’ve resolved to enjoy it with a quiet day at home, planting flowers on the balcony. Turning away from the view, he instead glances at Julian, who looks up at him as if sensing the attention. His skin is lightly flushed from the heat of the afternoon sun and his hands are streaked with soil, balancing a small Edosian orchid over an empty space in a flower tub. Elim has rarely seen a more beautiful sight.

“Here?” he asks with indulgent exasperation, rolling his eyes fondly when Elim, deliberately obviously, eyes the placement critically.

“My dear Doctor, while your sense of suspicion has certainly vastly improved, I’m afraid your sense of aesthetics hasn’t.”

“Well, where would you put it then?”

Instead of answering, Elim elects to utilise this opportunity to wind his arms around Julian’s waist from behind, enjoying the warmth of his skin under his scales as he entangles their fingers around Julian’s hold on the orchid, moving it just  _ slightly _ to the left, hiding his amusement at the incredulous look Julian throws him over his shoulder with limited success.

“I believe there would do quite nicely.”

“You’re ridiculous.” his dear doctor insists, and Elim merely smiles into the kiss.

The orchid sits seamlessly integrated into the harmony of flowers and the view of Cardassia surrounding it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it? Please cheer the author up after a long workday in a chaotic room containing enough glitter to offend anyone's aesthetic sensibilities - leave a comment? :D


End file.
